Somewhere Safe
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, ZA Oneshot. Post Season 10. She was always safe with him, and he was always safe with her.


**AN: This is for the anon who wanted Caryl stuck somewhere in the snow.**

**I own nothing from the show.**

**I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! **

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The blizzard seemed to come out of nowhere. But, then again, it wasn't like any of them really had the ability to simply flip on the weather channel and see what might be in store. And Daryl, having grown up much further south than he was now, still wasn't accustomed to recognizing the signs of surprise winter storms.

They were expected to be gone less than one day. They weren't even expected to be gone overnight.

Michonne would know, immediately, that it was the snow that had slowed them down, but Lydia would be panicked by their delay. There was probably nothing that they could do about it now, though.

The snow was heavier than Daryl had ever seen it before. It seemed to white-out the world around them and, though he held tight to Carol's hand and tried to drag her back to something that even looked remotely familiar, he could hardly tell up from down without the help of gravity.

Carol was the reason that he continued to even try to trudge through the swirling, icy mess than stung his face and kept him from knowing where he was, where he'd been, and where he was going.

She was just getting close to Lydia. There was something there that was just starting to really grow between the two of them.

Alpha was dead. The Whisperers were silent. They were just tasting peace—real, true, comfortable peace.

And Lydia wanted a mother. She wanted a mother before she was considered too old to enjoy the little things that Daryl saw her trying to get from Carol. She wanted a mother to teach her to cook and to help her with her homework—because Lydia was still, really, learning the basics that even Judith had almost mastered at this point. She wanted a mother to tell her goodnight and, when things were quiet, to read to her by the fire.

And Lydia wanted a father. She wanted a father to offer her protection. Safety. She wanted someone to play catch with her in the street and to teach her about protecting herself for when the time would come that he couldn't be around.

She didn't seem to care that they weren't together—that they only lived together as best friends.

Or, maybe, she was like Daryl and she hoped that, maybe, one day they could live together as something more.

Because Lydia talked to Daryl a lot about the wonderful things he should see in Carol—things he absolutely saw—and he assumed that she might try to do the same with Carol. She didn't understand that Daryl was afraid to push for more in case Carol only wanted his friendship. He'd rather live with her, forever, as his friend than risk losing her. Life, after all, didn't feel very much like it was worth living without her.

And Carol wanted desperately to get home from their failed hunt to comfort Lydia. She was distraught over the thought of simply not returning when Lydia expected them back. She hated the idea of upsetting Lydia, and even though Daryl was certain that Lydia would easily bounce back from such an upset when Michonne pointed out to her—if she didn't figure it out on her own—that it was likely the snowstorm that had delayed their arrival home, Daryl wasn't sure that he could handle knowing that Carol was distraught over the whole thing.

So, he led her, his hand holding as tightly to hers as he possibly could for fear of losing her in the blinding snow, until he felt her pulling back on him with much greater resistance than before.

When he turned, Daryl practically had to walk, since he felt that he could barely see his hand in front of his face—one hand over another—down Carol's arm to find her. He pulled her to him when he reached her. She was freezing. He was freezing, but he worried, suddenly, that his layers were warmer than hers. He had, perhaps, layered up a good bit more than she had. He naturally had a great deal more body fat, as well, than she had. He took off his top layer—not too much considering the cold wrapping around them, and put it over her shoulders.

"No," she tried to protest, but even that simple word caught like her jaw had seized up with the cold.

"Fuck," Daryl spat. He pulled her to him again and rubbed his hands up and down her arms. She was shivering and her teeth were chattering violently, but in true Carol fashion, she wouldn't complain. "You don't get to fuckin' freeze on me. You don't get to fuckin' do that so you just—stop it right fuckin' now."

Daryl thought he might have heard her laugh. Maybe he simply imagined it because he desperately wanted to hear it.

His face was numb. His hands beneath his gloves were numb. He was suddenly aware that his feet inside his boots were numb.

How long had they been trudging along without even knowing where the hell they were going?

Daryl could find their way back to Alexandria, but he couldn't find it in this snow. He would have to wait until there was more visibility.

And he wasn't going back without Carol.

He scooped her up. She barked some stunted protests at him, but he ignored her entirely. She shook violently against him, but she didn't fight. She wrapped her arms around him as best she could, and she sagged in his arms.

"Where are we going?" She asked, her words almost swallowed up entirely by the biting wind.

Daryl didn't know if something had happened to make her forget that they'd been trying to get back, or if she was only just realizing that he had a new plan and a new concern.

"Somewhere safe," Daryl offered.

He had no idea where somewhere safe might be. Still, it was the dead of winter and the world was frozen. He had the woman that he loved beyond anything else in the world in his arms, and he feared that she might succumb to the cold if they remained exposed to the elements much longer.

He had nothing left to do but mutter a silent prayer that any spirit at all that might be looking out for them—from God to Merle, if such a thing were possible—would help him find somewhere safe.

He trudged, entirely unaware of where he was going or even if he was, accidentally, retracing ground that he'd already covered, and he repeated the same prayer over and over. He often dreamed of holding Carol in his arms. He found his happiest moments—his warmest and most comfortable moments of existence—when she hugged him. And he hoped, one day, to really hold her in every possible sense of the word, but this was not how he dreamed of holding her.

He stopped, every once in a while, to shift her weight and force her to speak to him or make some noise to acknowledge that she was still with him—that her heart hadn't stopped, seized up by the cold.

His fear and his determination—and a little of the strain of carrying her through the thick snow—kept him warm.

And he only just stopped himself from falling to his knees when there was just the slightest clearing in the blinding snow that seemed to blow at him from every direction and, at times, even from the ground. The house that he practically ran into sat there like a mirage. It was like a vision—something he might see right before death. He reminded himself to whisper a thanks to whoever it had been that had seen fit to put it there—right in the middle of a path that Daryl hadn't even known he was following.

Daryl carried Carol up the porch steps, carefully testing his weight on each step before he moved to the next. These days, things could be rotted through. She didn't need an injury on top of the possible hypothermia, and neither did he. The porch supported him and the door was unlocked. He tried it with his hand and yelled inside the house. He had no free hand, but he could shift Carol quickly to kill a Walker if he needed to.

No Walkers came, though, and no voices threatened him for disturbing them.

Daryl took Carol quickly to the couch and sat her down. Her eyes were closed, and she kept them that way. Daryl leaned his ear close to her face. Her breathing was shallow, but she was breathing. He warmed her face with his gloved hands. He pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and covered her.

"You gotta look at me," Daryl said. "For fuck's sake—Carol—look at me."

She turned her head in his direction, but it simply sagged like it was too heavy for her neck and her eyelids were too heavy for to open on her own. She mumbled something, but it made no sense and Daryl couldn't make out anything in particular.

"We're gonna be just fine," Daryl said. "I'ma get you some blankets and—look for somethin' to burn. We're gonna be fine."

Daryl rummaged through the old house and found blankets. He covered Carol in a heavy layer of blankets until he was satisfied that her body temperature would begin to rise. He searched outside—always keeping close enough to the house to touch the side of it—and he found a small wood box. It had very little chopped wood stored there, though, and most of it was rotted. Daryl took the wood, tore down the box and took it, as well, and then he dragged the two chairs he found off the porch into the house. Then he tore down the porch swing and busted everything up in the living room—protected from the wind—with an axe that was hanging near the door for whoever had lived there to restock the box that they'd never gotten around to restocking.

He'd bust up every piece of furniture in the house, if he had to, but he was going to get a fire burning and he was going to keep it burning for as long as they needed it.

Whatever deity had left them the house plopped right in the middle of Daryl's blindly chosen path, had also left a wide variety of lighters in the kitchen drawer. Daryl made very short work of starting a fire. He used some pliers and the rack from the oven to fashion a cooking surface for the fireplace. He found a pot, packed it tightly with snow, and set it to eventually boil over the fire.

In the kitchen, Daryl found a few cans of soup. Chicken noodle and chicken and stars, he decided, could easily be mixed together. He made the concoction a bit heartier with some cream of chicken soup, and he added his melted snow as necessary. While the soup warmed over the fire, Daryl slipped out to fill the pot again with snow to provide them with drinking water. Once it was purified, after all, it would cool quickly. The fire warmed the room, but it did little for warming the rest of the house.

By the time that Daryl found an oil lamp, wiped off most of the dust, and got it lit, Carol was starting to stir like some kind of blanket monster shifting the heavy cover that he'd piled on top of her.

"Stay down," he commanded, filling a mug with some of the soup that he'd warmed. He returned the pot to warm, keeping it as far from the flame as the makeshift rack allowed, and he took the mug to Carol. He put it on the floor and worked to help her sit up a little.

As she warmed up, though, it was clear that her strength was returning to her. The color was returning to her face, complete with evidence of some pretty wicked windburn. Siddiq could help treat it with salve when they got back. It wasn't important. The only thing that was important to Daryl, at that moment, was that she was looking much more like herself.

"Where are we?" She asked, looking around.

Daryl smiled at her.

"Somewhere safe," Daryl offered. He didn't want to tell her that he couldn't tell her much more than that. He didn't want to tell her that when the snow settled and the morning came, since he was hoping that the storm didn't last too long, he would have to figure out where they were and he would have to figure out how to lead her back to Alexandria.

Carol smiled at him.

"It's always somewhere safe when I'm with you," she offered.

Daryl felt his pulse pick up. His heart thundered wildly in his chest. He put the mug as delicately as he could into Carol's still-gloved hands.

"Drink this," he said. "It'll warm you up."

Carol huffed. She shucked off the massive weight of blankets that were still somewhat draped over her like a dog shaking off water.

"I'm hot," she breathed out.

Daryl laughed to himself.

And before he knew it, and before he even thought about it, the words came tumbling out of his mouth. They weren't at all the words he'd meant to say, and he was slightly horrified to hear himself saying them. He thought them, of course, but he never would have said them.

He meant to say: "It's good to hear you say that."

Instead, he said: "Don't I know you are."

She stared at him—her big blue eyes were smiling at him. She didn't seem nearly as horrified as he felt over his choice of words. She tasted her soup, and he realized that he was moving her hands with his own, and her only choice was to drink the soup or be drowned in it. Still, she kept her eyes on him over the rim of the mug.

He was growing somewhat sure that, somehow, it was Merle who had put the damned house in his path, and it was Merle who put the damned words in his mouth.

And he was thankful that his big brother was looking out for him, even if he was, more than likely, laughing somewhere.

"You made me soup," Carol said when he allowed her to swallow. He might have almost forced her to chug half a mug of soup before he became aware that he was holding the mug to her mouth.

"You need to drink it," Daryl said. "It'll keep you warm. There's a bit of a storm right now—don't know if you remember it…" He wasn't sure how much hypothermia affected long term memory.

Carol smiled at him.

"I remember you keeping me safe," she offered.

Daryl cleared his throat when his anxiety seized his chest and throat up a bit. He remained on his knees, in front of her, as she reclined on the couch—not that he'd given her much chance to move.

"When it clears, we'll go back to Alexandria. Don't you worry about it. Lydia's fine with Michonne."

"I know she is," Carol said.

"She'll be safe," Daryl said.

"I know she will be," Carol said.

"They warm inside," Daryl said.

"I know they are," Carol confirmed.

"We got some wood. It ought to keep us plenty warm tonight," Daryl said.

Carol smiled at him. She smirked at him, really. Just the corner of her mouth turned up. She tapped her gloved fingertips on the mug.

"I'm sure we can think of…plenty…of ways to stay warm," she offered.

Daryl's stomach flipped and, immediately, every part of his body practically crackled with hope—hope he feared having dashed.

"You mean…" He started, but he didn't have the guts to finish his statement.

Carol's chest was heaving. It was the only indication at all that she gave that, perhaps, she was nervous, too.

"If you want," Carol said. "It's important to—stay warm."

Daryl nodded his head.

"There's—somethin' you should know about…me an' that…" Daryl said.

"That you're not interested?" Carol asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

"That ain't it at all," Daryl said.

"Then that's all I need to know," she said. Her chest was still heaving. Daryl could see it. But she was doing good at keeping a poker face that gave her the appearance of not being nervous.

"It's just that I don't know if…an' you oughta know that I really…" Daryl stumbled.

"Shhh," Carol said, surprising him. He stopped cold in his search for words to tell her that he wasn't really sure that he had anything to offer her that she'd want. Not in a physical sense. Not in the way that he thought she wanted, and not, even, in the way that he so desperately wanted. He had no experience whatsoever—and that was an embarrassing fact. Maybe, though, she knew it was embarrassing to him. She stopped him from saying it and her expression softened.

"It'll be OK, Daryl," she assured him with a softer tone of voice than she normally used. There was no teasing in her tone this time. She patted the couch next to her so that Daryl might actually finally rise from his position on the floor in front of her. "Come here—share my blanket. This is a safe place—for both of us."


End file.
